What Shall We Die For?
by stewardssons
Summary: After the island fortress long ruled by his line is ravaged and captured by a rogue admiral commanding The Desolation, Thorin, heir of the greatest line of pirates the Caribbean has ever known, and his crew must determine whether their loyalties lie with the cursed gold awaiting them or with their pirate brethren fight as the battle for the freedom of the seas begins. (Hobbit/POTC)


Thorin determined he'd rather drink from a puddle than from the murky ale sitting before him. He sighed heavily, tapping a calloused knuckle against the side of the tankard and watched as the film atop shifted. Whatever it was, (for he was not sure it was even worthy to be called ale,) it was better than nothing and for that he took a long sip. Pushing it aside then, he dug into the plate before him. He ravenously tore into the cheap food _The Prancing Pony _seemed to specialize in, working to sate his empty stomach.

It had been a long day, made longer by the captains lingering in the harbor. There had been rumors of work in this part of the Caribbean and the island of Bree had always been a haven for ships needing to resupply and find a few extra crewmen. However, the few ships openly looking for new hands had all been unwilling to pay even half of what Thorin had hoped. Struggling to keep his temper intact, he determined it would be best to try again upon the morrow and hope for a better search. After glaring his way through a crowd of merchants, he had made his way to the _Pony _and settled himself away from anyone who looked interested in the prospect of the conversation.

Rubbing his forehead with the back of his head in a useless attempt to clear his aching headache, Thorin picked at the bit of chicken before him. It was just a few more months at most, he reminded himself to ward off the frustration gnawing at him, and he'd have enough saved to visit Fili and Kili in Santa Luin. Despite his exhaustion and poor mood, a faint smile twitched onto his lips. It seemed they grew a few more inches with each visit. Had it not been just yesterday that they had clambered onto his knees, begging for stories of the Lonely Island while Dis looked on in exasperation?

Thorin drank once more. Those were happy days. For the great shadow that had clouded his heart, his nephews had brought him joy and now pride. Last he had talked to Dis, Kili was seeking an apprenticeship as a cartographer while Fili continued to perfect the weapons he had always been so skilled at crafting. He was onto swords now, Dis had boasted like any proud mother might, spending long nights down at the forge. Fili had always favored those daggers, Thorin smiled as he finished off his ale. When FIli had been younger, giving him anything resembling a hug was always a hazard in itself as weapons more or less always seemed to end up hidden in his boots and jacket.

Thorin became aware of a gaze upon him, a strange thing considering the vast array of folk that visited the busy port, and glanced out of the corner of his eye. He set his jaw upon noticing a decidedly dirty character glaring from behind a worn pipe and rested a hand near his sword upon spying another. If they sought to rob him, Thorin thought with a dark flash of pride, they would find themselves regretting it. However, he flinched as a new shadow fell upon him, looking upwards in surprise.

"Ah, I was looking for an open seat!"

Thorin squinted. He was more than acquainted with the sort that sought out the Caribbean, their appearance often mirroring the wild, feral freedom of the sea. However, the old man before him bore an entirely unkempt appearance. His scraggly beard was worn long and his hair fell over his shoulders in a grey mess. _Grey. _

"Hm, perhaps it might be best to get our introductions out of the way quickly. I am Gandalf, oft called the Grey along with a great many other things, some of which are not considered polite to utter before company."

Thorin blinked at the dirtied hand that was suddenly thrust towards him. He awkwardly returned the handshake, his mind flipping through the many tales he had heard of the legendary mariner. "Aye, I know."

The mariner seemed pleased by that, his eyes twinkling even in the poor lamplight of the tavern. "Now, if you mind not my asking, what brings Thorin Oakenshield to such an island as this? Not oft do you and your kin frequent this shore."

He sighed inwardly. With each passing moment, Thorin became more and more aware that the peaceful evening he had yearned for was not to happen. Shifting in his seat and tapping absently against his empty tankard, he considered how best to reply. It would be easy to state that he was on shore simply to try and find work, for that was partially true, but he could guess that the legendary mariner was too shrewd to be deceived by so blatant an answer. "I…chasing rumors," He replied bluntly with a shrug, "Word had reached me that my father had been seen near a patch of islands off the coast of Rhovanion. I-, there was nothing. For that, I've no coin to speak of and came here to find work."

Gandalf's voice grew sympathetic, his weathered hands folding atop the table. "Rumors are rumors, Thorin, and perhaps you-"

"He _lives._" Thorin's voice grew thick with determination and he leaned forward before he could stop himself. "I know it." Detecting something akin to pity in the old man's eyes, he quickly glanced away to compose himself, lowering his voice. "My father came to see you, before he vanished without a trace. What business had he with you, Gandalf, that he disappeared afterwards?"

"He wished you take back your island, Thorin, and defeat what foe took it from you, and I would suggest the same. Take back what is rightful yours."

"Our meeting is no happy coincidence, Gandalf. Do not take me for a fool."

"I do not. Still, long has it been since last _The Desolation _was seen in those waters, Thorin. Near twenty years since-"

"I know how long it has been," Thorin cut in harshly, drumming his fingers against the wooden table in annoyance.

"Others, no doubt, will have noticed, Thorin, and who is to say they will not look to claim the island themselves and what treasure you and your kin stored there? Foul folk will yearn to seek it before long." The old man reached into his pocket, pulling out a weathered piece of parchment and tossing it before Thorin. "As eyes turn towards the Lonely Island so also they turn unto you."

Thorin picked up the parchment carefully, his chest racing as his eyes scanned over the words inked there. "I…I do not understand-"

"Someone wants you dead, and wants you dead quite badly to offer so much for your head," Gandalf said solemnly, any trace of humor leaving his eyes, "You must be careful, Thorin Oakenshield; careful, indeed." He leaned forward then, meeting Thorin's gaze, "You must do this, Thorin. The time has come for you to seek out your rightful inheritance, lest another claim that island and what gold waits there. You are an heir, Thorin, to the greatest line of pirates the Caribbean has ever known. Put off this ruse and _seek that island._"

He found he could say nothing, his mind whirling at the very idea. _Pirate. _The word had rang true to him, bright and clear and more enticing that he wished to admit. Kili and Fili still thought him a failed merchant, no more than a man with poor business sense and even poorer luck, but Thorin felt his heart swell at mention of his true lineage. He was a pirate. The sea ran in his veins. Too long he had pretended otherwise, a part of him whispered, and now he was given the chance once more to follow the siren song of the blue waters of the Caribbean.

"Call a meeting of the Seven Families, Thorin," Gandalf argued, lowering his voice further, "Remind them of what oaths they swore unto your forefathers. They have ships and men at the ready. You could raise an army within a fortnight."

"You forget that they swore unto the one who holds the Arkenstone, Gandalf, " Thorin cut back bitterly, "Without that jewel, they will not heed me and in case you have forgotten, _I do not have it_." A pause. "He stole it, along with the rest of my kin's gold."

Gandalf was silent for a long moment then. Finally, he nodded and met Thorin's gaze, his voice barely a murmur. "And what if I were to help you?"

"How? That jewel lies across the Caribbean, no doubt resting by the hand of one of the Navy's former finest aboard the strongest ship these waters have ever seen."

"Aye." Thorin blinked at how casually the mariner admitted such. A little smile twitched onto Gandalf's weathered features. "You will be needing a _burglar._"


End file.
